Broken
by astral-angel
Summary: They think that she has broken him. It occurs to him that they may be right.


**Title:** Broken  
  
**Author:** Mauzi

**Category:** WWE  
  
**Disclaimer:** All WWE characters belong to the WWE.  
  
**Distribution:** Cristal, others ask first  
  
**Rating:** PG

**Summary: **They think that she has broken him. It occurs to him that they may be right.

**Notes: **This is the first time I've tried writing in this particular tense, so please, I'd love it if you'd tell me if you like it, if you don't, whatever. Feedback, needed!

**Part 1/1**

The T.V blares on, and the inane comments of announcers fall on deaf ears. His eyes stare at the screen, cold blue glazing over. He blinks, and then opens them. Again he stares at the screen, and resists the urge to be sick. He wants to move, to turn the screen off, but his limbs are lead, his eyes will not move from the flickering picture and his mind is continuously assaulted with the memories he had tried to bury.

Her face swims in front of his eyes, and he can classify the images into categories – before, during and after. His vision dims, until all he can see is small vignettes of her. He knows he should blink, but he is afraid to let the tear roll down his face, and afraid to lose the glimpses into a life he'd forgotten.

His breathing becomes harsher, and he is all too aware of the burning pain each shakily drawn breath causes. The sound of his blood running through his veins echoes in his ears, a never ending, voiceless taunt. His mouth is dry, and as he licks his lips, he can faintly discern the fruity taste of her lip gloss. But that too is nothing more than a dredged up memory, for his mouth has not tasted hers in minutes, hours, days.

He tries to sigh, for he feels that that is what he ought to do in such a moment, but the steady stream of air about to be expelled is caught in his throat. He sits there, a tightly wound ball of panic settling in his stomach as he struggles to regain control, neither inhaling nor exhaling. The sound of his heart pounding acts as a base to the taunting fury of his blood, but even as the thought crosses his mind, he is sure that he can hear it slowing, becoming sluggish in his fight for air.

Black dots appear in his vision, marring the rush of images. He blinks furiously, attempting to restore the images to their former glory, but he only succeeds in destroying the carefully hoarded memories. He doesn't want to cry, but his body is no longer listening to him, and through a dim haze he can feel a sudden stream of wetness gush over his face, trailing down his neck.

His stomach heaves, and the ball of panic dislodges and unravels, creeping through his body, leaving a trail of cold hysteria in its wake. But he is not aware of this, for all he knows to be true is that he cannot breathe. Anything else becomes inconsequential. The pain is monumental, and his body burns for want of air, but it is irrelevant. It is only pain, and he is no stranger to pain. It has dogged his steps for over a month, it haunts his dreams at night. In his darkest moments, he has associated pain with her. Indeed, to his tortured mind, she is pain and pain is her. But at this moment, he does not think of this. Because he cannot breathe.

And as his head falls back against the cold of the wall, he only knows that he cannot breathe, and that he doesn't want to die. This revelation penetrates the thick fog in his head, and he is surprised. He feels the vice around his throat loosen, and he gasps in vain, for still no air enters his ravaged body. The tears fall faster, and his eyes, darkened and blurry, close. But again he thinks that he doesn't want to die. The surprise is less this time 'round, and he is sure he can feel a small trickle of air slide past the iron fisted grip on his throat. It flows through his body, taking the edge of the hysteria that plagues him.

He wants to smile, but the need to breathe overpowers all else. His thoughts are starting to clear, to become focused. He knows that he will live, but he needs to breathe. The vice loosens more, and he swallows, air now working to ease the pain. He breathes, and thinks that he may be happy. But his thoughts stray from his control once more.

Her face, still looking out at him from the flickering screen, smiles. He does not smile in return, and the pain becomes incessant. He frowns instead, and wonders. Because the pain is different now. He no longer feels the urge to cry. The pain has a dull edge to it now, and it throbs, but he thinks that it beats for revenge, and not for tears. He recognizes the rage, welcomes it as one does a lover. He will nurture it, feed it... love it. He remembers the power that rage brings, and he embraces it.

He looks up, and his eyes once again stare at the screen. They are cold, yet he knows they burn once more for her... but now, anger and rage are the fuel. The passion he once felt is dead. He watches her smirk, and for the first time in a month, Chris Jericho smiles.

Because Trish Stratus has not broken him.

**Fin**


End file.
